Alive
by dark-hearted rose
Summary: Oneshot, sequel to "Awake". Erik comes to reclaim his bride. Thank You, readers and reviewers.


**"Alive"**

"_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death."_

These are the words emblazoned upon the outside of the crypt, above the doorway through which I pass, like a halo. My lips twist into a smirk at the perfect irony of it all: here, in this place of darkness and decay lie moldering the bodies of your adopted forefathers, all condemned to the bodily corruption they had once sought to escape. All except you, my darling, my love. You are awake. You are alive.

The stench inside the mausoleum is overpowering, but I quiver in happy anticipation as I make my way through the dark and damp, towards the glistening white coffin atop the large pedestal on my far right, still untouched by the surrounding decay. Again, the powerful parallel strikes me, for, just as the coffin in which you reside, neither would you be so touched.

I pry open the lid carefully, loathe to disturb you too early, panicked that I would be too late. But no; there you are, all beauty, all radiance, your skin beautifully pale and cold, cold like mine. Your lips are of the brightest red, your lashes dark, caressing your cheek like a shadow. I stare at you in your slumber, and sigh in realized, over-powering desire.

You are mine. Finally, you are mine.

Granted, you would first need to be accustomed to your new state of being, to our life, together, in the darkness. I would need to teach you my secrets, how to feed, how to prowl, and also the others, changing form to soar in the night sky, completely free but for the constant, primal urge for blood. Though I don't hate it, that urge, for what would be the meaning of freedom without something to hold us back?

I brush my fingers across your porcelain cheek, reflecting on how you won't shy away from my touch any longer, though I do miss the warmth that you once had, your softness. I miss the sound, the smell of the blood surging in your veins, the blood I have tasted so many times. I wonder if you remember the night I stole you, really and truly Don Juan Triumphant as I took of you, at the same time I made you take of me. That night, everything should have been made complete, but your brave little Vicomte and that damned daroga—witless enough as to not know what I am, what I have become, even under his supposedly watchful gaze—chose to involve themselves and "rescue" you.

Your eyes flutter under your pale, almost translucent eyelids, and you moan softly, the shadow of a breath crossing your lips. I had never meant to cause you so much pain, my darling. You had wasted away, slowly, the venomous magic of our exchanged blood working slowly, mimicking a drawn-out, dreadful illness. How you must have suffered, stuck in bed for weeks, months during the day, only to regain strength with the call of the night. Yes, I had watched you, watched your long nights sitting still on the veranda of your house, watched the moon rise and fall with you, beside you, shrouded in darkness. Yes, I had watched, pleased, that first night you had acted on your impulses, claiming your blood while your own husband slept, oblivious, watched as the night whispered to you, just as it does me.

But I do not dwell on these things any longer, for you are stirring, my darling, my love. I wait with bated breath as your limbs twitch with life, as you moan again, louder this time, finally as your eyes open. You blink, once, twice, and you turn to look at me, unmasked.

There is no fear on your face, in your eyes. There is no fear, only a weariness, a sort of acceptance, the twinkle of renewed life.

Soon, very soon, I shall add "love" to that ponderous list within your cerulean eyes.

"Rise, Christine," I murmur, extending my hand to you, making my contribution to the whispers, the music of the night. "Rise, my goddess, my Persephone, my queen of Darkness."

You sit up, slowly, your flaxen hair cascading down your shoulders as you do so. You turn to me, take my hand, the hint of a smile gracing your lips as you look at me.

My heart leaps in exultation as I help you from your coffin, retaining my hold on your hand. "Come," I say, "you must feed." And you follow me, Christine, my darling, my love.

My bride.

For you are awake.

You are alive.


End file.
